Georgia's POV
I wasn't raised. I was engineered.
The marble floors of the Steele estate swallow my footsteps as I move through the foyer. Twenty-two years in this mausoleum, and I still feel like a ghost haunting my own life. The chandeliers overhead hang like frozen explosions, reminding me with their cold brilliance that I will never be enough here.
"Sit straighter, Georgia."
Mother's voice cuts through the silence of the dining room. I adjust my spine, feeling the familiar ache between my shoulder blades.
"Better." She doesn't look up from her plate. "Your father's guests arrive at eight. Wear the blue dress, not the black. We're projecting confidence, not mourning."
I nod. Words aren't required. They never are.
My father, Edward, rules this kingdom with whispers instead of shouts. His disappointment hangs in the air like poison, invisible but lethal. Mother exists in his shadow, her smile stretched so tight I wonder when the muscles will finally snap.
Always Georgia, never Georgie. Nicknames imply affection. Affection implies weakness.
I learned early that my body isn't mine. It's an asset to be maintained, collateral for the family empire. By now, I've mastered the art of being porcelain: beautiful, valuable, and empty enough to hold whatever they pour into me.
Perfect little Georgia. Watch her bend until she breaks.
The kingdom shatters slowly at first.
Staff exchange glances when Father passes. Phones slam down when I enter rooms. His hands shake as he signs documents, eyes haunted by something he can't control. The Steele empire hemorrhages, drowning in red ink while everyone pretends not to see the blood.
I catch fragments through closed doors.
"Creditors calling hourly."
"Leveraged beyond recovery."
"Everything we've built."
Then one night, I press my ear to my parents' bedroom door and hear my future tossed onto the table like a worthless poker chip.
"Josiah Mason could save us," Father says, his voice stripped of authority. "His firm could restore faith in Steele & Associates."
"But would he want to?" Mother's reply carries pure panic.
Silence stretches like a bruise.
"He's already shown interest. In the firm... and in Georgia."
My blood crystallizes. I pull back from the door, pressing my fist against my mouth to trap the sound threatening to escape.
I'm not a daughter. I'm salvage. A fucking bargaining chip.
The summer gala arrives with suffocating heat and forced smiles.
I stand alone by the fountain, nursing champagne and claustrophobia, when I feel him. A pressure change in the atmosphere, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Georgia Steele."
My name leaves his lips like a receipt for something already purchased. I turn.
Josiah Mason doesn't occupy space. He commands it. Late thirties, hair like midnight streaked with silver, eyes the color of storm clouds. His suit fits like it was sewn directly onto his body, tailored to intimidate. Not handsome. Compelling. The way predators are compelling when your instincts scream danger but you can't look away.
"Mr. Mason." My voice stays steady despite the ice flooding my spine. "I've heard so much about you."
"All favorable, I hope." His smile flashes brief and clinical, like a scalpel before an incision.
"My father speaks highly of you."
"And I of him." His gaze maps my face with uncomfortable precision. "Though I must confess, it wasn't just your father's reputation that brought me here tonight."
He's inspecting the merchandise. Checking for flaws.
The way he looks at me carries no desire, only assessment. He's not seeing a woman. He's appraising an acquisition.
"You're studying economics at USC," he says. It's not a question.
"Graduating in the spring."
"With honors, I'm told." He takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. "Your father mentioned you have a mind for numbers."
"He's generous."
"I doubt that." His mouth curves slightly. "Edward Steele doesn't deal in generosity. Only facts."
The conversation unfolds like a chess match. Each word calculated. Each response measured. His voice wraps around me like expensive silk hiding barbed wire.
When I finally escape back into the crowd, his stare follows. I feel it pressing between my shoulder blades, a phantom touch I can't shake.
The pressure builds with brutal efficiency after that night.
"This is an opportunity, Georgia." Father sits behind his desk, whiskey glass trembling in his hand. The study reeks of aged leather and desperation. "Mason Capital would restore everything. Think of what's at stake."
I stand before him like a defendant awaiting verdict.
"What exactly are you asking?"
"I'm not asking." His eyes meet mine. "Josiah has expressed interest in a partnership. Business and... personal."
The word "personal" lands like a slap.
Mother appears in the doorway, fingers already twisting her pearls into knots. "He'll provide for you, darling. This arrangement would benefit everyone."
"Arrangement." The word tastes like copper pennies. "You're selling me."
"Don't be dramatic." Father drains his glass. "You're twenty-two years old. Marriage was always inevitable. This way, you're choosing security. Stability."
"I'm not choosing anything."
"You'll choose correctly." His voice drops to that dangerous whisper. "Or you'll watch this family lose everything we've built. Your inheritance. Your mother's security. All of it."
Mother rushes forward, grabbing my hands. Her grip is desperate, nails digging into my skin. "Please, Georgia. He's a good man. Successful. Respected. You could do so much worse."
I could also do so much better. Like having a choice.
But I don't say it. I never do.
Josiah begins appearing at the house with increasing frequency.
Each visit brings gifts that feel like down payments. Diamond earrings that weigh my lobes. A pearl necklace that chokes my throat. A bracelet that clasps around my wrist like a shackle.
"Beautiful," Mother breathes when I model them. "He has exquisite taste."
He has expensive taste. There's a difference.
We have dinners where Father and Josiah discuss business while Mother and I sit decoratively, contributing only when prompted. Josiah's hand occasionally finds my knee under the table. Not intimate. Possessive. His thumb traces circles against my skin, each rotation winding something tight in my chest.
"What do you think, Georgia?" Father asks during one such dinner.
I blink. "About?"
"The merger timeline." Josiah's mouth curves with amusement. "Your father wants your perspective on moving the announcement to after our engagement is official."
Our engagement. As if it's already decided.
"Whatever you think is best." The words come automatically, a script I've rehearsed my entire life.
"Smart girl." Josiah's hand tightens on my knee. "Always deferring to those with more experience."
Something inside me cracks, but I keep smiling. I've perfected this smile. Beautiful and empty.
The proposal happens at Le Ciel, the most exclusive restaurant in the city.
No bended knee. No declarations of love. Just a black velvet box sliding across white linen, containing a diamond so large it seems to absorb all light around it.
"Your father will sign the partnership papers tomorrow," Josiah says, slipping the ring onto my finger before I can respond. It feels like a manacle, cold and unyielding. "This was the right decision, Georgia."
I stare at the diamond. "You're very confident."
"I'm very thorough." He signals the waiter for champagne. "I don't make decisions lightly. When I commit to something, I see it through."
The champagne arrives. We toast. I don't remember what he says. I'm too busy watching my reflection in the window, seeing myself disappear.
Later, he leads me to the terrace overlooking the city. Lights pulse below us, a future I'll never know.
He stands behind me, close enough that his breath warms my neck. His heat seeps through my dress as one hand settles on my hip. Not a lover's touch. An owner's.
"We'll be good together," he murmurs. His thumb traces those small circles again. "You'll learn to want this."
I stare at the diamond catching starlight and realize this is the culmination of my perfect upbringing. Not to be loved. To be useful.
Women like me don't get happy endings.
The wedding preparations begin with the precision of a corporate acquisition.
I watch my life being parceled into spreadsheets, my future traded like stocks. Each decision carries no weight for me. Florals, venue, guest list. All meticulously arranged to maximize social return, never personal joy.
This isn't a wedding. It's a business deal with cake.
Mother plays mastermind, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She fixates on seating arrangements as if a misplaced socialite might tip the universe's balance. She obsesses over imported orchids meant to symbolize purity, never mind their fragrance makes me nauseous.
"What do you think of these centerpieces?" She spreads photos across the dining table during one planning session.
I glance at them. "They're nice."
"Nice?" Her voice tightens. "Georgia, this is your wedding. Show some enthusiasm."
"They're beautiful, Mother."
"Better." She gathers the photos. "It's about the statement we're making."
What statement? That I'm property?
The dress arrives in a pristine white box. Handmade lace, layers of imported silk. More museum piece than garment, more armor than fabric.
At the final fitting, I stand before the mirror while the seamstress flutters around me with pins and tape. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and vacant. Someone carved me open and scraped out everything that made me whole.
Josiah remains absent from the planning, as expected. When I try involving him, he waves me off.
"It's all taken care of, Georgia." He doesn't look up from his phone. "No need to stress over trivial things. Your parents know what they're doing."
Trivial things.
My wedding. My life. Trivial.
The guest list swells with names I've never heard. Each one an alliance, a handshake, a strategic move. No one is invited for love. Every seat at that reception is a carefully chosen chess piece.
I'm not the bride. I'm the centerpiece.
As the date looms closer, the noose tightens. Mother's pearls rattle against her collarbone, her only tell. Father's voice grows sharper, edged with desperation he refuses to acknowledge.
The final fitting is clinical. The seamstress adjusts the hem with surgical precision while I stand motionless, suffocating under fabric worth more than some people's homes. The dress is a masterpiece. Flawless.
But it isn't mine. It's a uniform for a role I never auditioned for.
This entire process has become a costume, a script, a performance hiding rot beneath its gilded frame. No one is looking at me. They're looking at the empire, the dynasty, the currency my presence ensures.
I've ceased being a person.
I have no way out.
Soon, there won't be enough of me left to even want one.